Read 4 The Marathon Murders for Free Online

campus. Liggett was one of the few long-time
residents who had not fled to the suburbs in various waves of migration that
followed World War II. Renters or upwardly mobile singles and families who had
bought in during recent decades occupied most of the picturesque old houses.
    A squarish ,
three-story yellow brick with a porch that ran the full width in front, its
roof anchored by six white Ionic columns, Grandpa Liggett’s house featured a
small, flat-roofed projection with two windows that likely opened onto a
partial top floor. In contrast to most of the homes along the street, this one
boasted a driveway of two concrete strips at one side. I parked my Grand
Cherokee behind Kelli’s rental car shortly after noon. We headed for the front
steps.
    Pressing a button beside the
oversize mahogany door produced the sound of chimes. A Kelli Kane different
from the one we had encountered earlier opened the door. This was probably
closer to the real Kelli, shorn of the suave public demeanor. She wore a
sweat-dampened, faded Yellowstone National Park tee shirt over well-worn brown
jeans. Floppy sandals adorned a strong pair of feet with bright red toenails. I
suspected the earthy young woman with a certain natural charm was seldom seen
in the clandestine world she occupied before coming to Nashville. At the
moment, however, the charm appeared a bit bent out of shape, as evidenced by
the anger that darkened her eyes.
    “Come on in,” she said, waving a
hand. “I’ve been searching for identity clues they might have left behind.”
    I looked past her into the room.
“What did you find?”
    “Zilch.”
    A strong smell of tobacco smoke
greeted us just inside the door. Now that I had become a confirmed non-smoker,
the smell was enough to bring a twitch to my nose. It also told me the origin
of Arthur Liggett’s emphysema. In the living room, elaborate ornamentation on
the chairs and a large sofa struck me as French provincial, though I admit I’m
no authority on period furniture styles. I knew Jill would straighten me out if
I had it wrong. Tapestries bearing ancient Roman scenes hung on the walls. I
suspected the décor had not been altered in many years. The only modern touch
was a large screen TV at one side of the room. A massive brass umbrella stand
with some kind of figure on top stood near the door.
    “The worst mess is in here,” Kelli
said, leading us down a hallway papered in subdued brown stripes to a room her
grandfather used as an office. She moved with an athletic grace that hinted at
a strict fitness regimen. I had worked out with fitness machines at an earlier
stage in life. Now the closest I got to weights was in weight watching.
    Drawers had been pulled out of a
file cabinet, their contents dumped on the floor. Books and papers were strewn
about, swept from shelves along one wall. It looked like the aftermath of a
hurricane down in the neighborhood of our Florida condo, but it didn’t appear
to be the work of professionals. For one thing, the chair and sofa cushions in
the living room hadn’t been cut open.
    “I’ll have to get this cleaned up
before Grandpa comes home,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d hate for him to
see what they’ve done. He’s an exceptionally neat and organized person. This
would kill him.”
    “By the way,” I said, “yesterday
you made the comment that as long as you’d known him, your grandfather had never been a complainer. That sounds like you haven’t
known him all that long. What’s the story?”
    She arched a well-sculptured
eyebrow. “You’re quite perceptive, Greg. Warren told me you had the reputation
of being an excellent investigator. I can see why.”
    “Be careful you don’t give him the
big head,” Jill said, grinning as she folded her arms.
    Kelli leaned against her
grandfather’s large oak roll-top desk, its pigeonholes now bare thanks to the burglar’s handiwork. “My dad, Vincent Kane, ran a liquor store.
That made him persona non grata to